


Sit Back Until It's Better

by waferkya



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Juan Carlos goes to the 2012 Olympics with a flu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sit Back Until It's Better

“Juanqui.”

Juan Carlos was asleep, and now, mournfully, he’s only half-asleep. He’s too warm and tired and his head feels swollen and stuffed with cotton, and who the fuck knew cotton could be so damn heavy.

There’s a hand resting between his shoulder blades, however, and it shifts a little, moving up his back until it reaches the nape of his neck; Juan Carlos wants to whine that that’s Pau’s spot, for Christ’s sake leave it alone, but his face is buried in the mattress and he doesn’t want to tip it back or turn around.

“Juanqui, babe, wake up.”

That’s the shittiest idea ever; Juan Carlos doesn’t want to be awake ever again, life is pain and pain is so not his thing. So he groans and nuzzles into the soft duvet under his face, trying to telepathically broadcast to whoever is trying to wake him, that he’s going the fuck back to sleep, thanks, go away before Pau comes back and hands you your own ass on a plate because you got handsy.

“ _Juanqui_ ,” the voice goes on again, and Juan Carlos must be verging on quasi-conscious now, his brain slowly rebooting, because he thinks he kinda knows that voice.

The tip of his ear gets a kiss, and yeah, he definitely knows this cologne.

“’S nice,” he mumbles, his face still shoved into the covers, so his words come out all muffled and slurred and fuzzy—exactly the way he feels like, by the way.

Pau chuckles, low and deep in his throat, and still so close to Juan Carlos’ ear.

“I need you to sit up a moment, Juanqui,” he says, and it’s a wonder he can say such terrible, horrible things with that warm, loving voice. If Juan Carlos had any energy left, he’d hate him a little.

“Nope,” he groans instead, but he shifts a little in the general direction in which he assumes Pau’s body is. “Can’t do that.”

Pau kisses his ear again, which is completely unfair; Juan Carlos’ temperature is sky-rocketing already without his contribution, thanks.

“You gotta take the aspirin,” Pau says. His fingers tangle into Juan Carlos’ hair, but he pulls them back after a second, like he’s afraid petting might lead to even worse sleepiness. Juan Carlos wants to cry, and be petted, and go to sleep. With Pau wrapped around him, possibly. “Plus, you really can’t sleep in these clothes, they’re filthy and it’s so unhygienic. And you should eat something, too. Don’t think I didn’t notice that your plate at dinner went back basically intact.”

“Jesus,” Juan Carlos breathes, and, okay, fine, maybe he can turn around a little. “Yes, mother.”

Pau smiles, and awards the effort of moving by scratching him very briefly behind his ear. Juan Carlos tries not to push back against the touch, and fails miserably. Whatever, he’s sick.

“Good boy,” Pau murmurs, and he even fluffs up a couple of pillows, putting them up against the headboard so Juan Carlos can lean against them. “I got you soup.”

Juan Carlos is pretty focused on resettling his body without passing out or spraining a muscle—yep, apparently breathing is all it takes for him to injure himself these days—so it takes him a moment to properly elaborate what Pau just said.

When he does, it doesn’t make much sense.

“What?”

Pau turns around from where he was standing in front of the tiny desk the British Olympic Committee was so kind to squeeze in a corner of the room, and he’s grinning, and he’s holding an honest to God bowl of steaming soup.

Juan Carlos cringes. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope,” Pau says, and carefully, slowly, he walks to the bed. “Your throat will thank me later.”

“Pau,” Juan Carlos mumbles, his voice a thin plea and again, this can’t be held against him because he’s sick. Things said and done when your body exceeds the adviced temperature can’t be used as blackmail or teasing material, that’s the rule; and Pau is a good person and he sticks to the rule, unlike, say, _Marc_. “Pau, _it’s the middle of the summer_.”

Pau barely arches an eyebrow.

“And _you_ have the flu,” he says, and he dips a spoon into the straw-colored liquid—judging by the smell, it’s chicken soup. Oh, God.

Juan Carlos wants to put all of his stubbornness up and refuse the soup—because it’s _August_ , baby Jesus on a spaceship, and it doesn’t matter how freezing the Village is because of all the air conditioning, August is not the time for chicken soup—but honestly, he’s so tired. He’s been tired for a year now, and his foot hurts, and his head is groggy and he feels stupid and his throat is so raw.

Pau blows on the hot soup, takes a tiny sip to make sure it’s not scalding; he looks pleased, and twists a little to better reach out to Juan Carlos.

“I hate everything,” Juan Carlos mumbles, but he drops his mouth open and lets Pau spoon-feed him, and it’s not even bad. It’s kinda nice, actually—especially when Pau seems satisfied with the amount of soup currently sloshing around Juan Carlos’ stomach, so he sets the bowl on the nightstand and then leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then the tip of his nose.

Juan Carlos makes a small, needy sound he will never fess up to; he grabs weakly at the front of Pau’s shirt, and when Pau is done mapping the shell of his ear with his tongue, he looks up, his expression inquiring.

Juan Carlos sighs.

_Aspirin_ , he mouths. These Olympic games are already shaping up to be some sort of tragedy, so he needs to be over this ridiculous flu as soon as possible; if he gets to _sleep_ with Pau, instead of just sharing the bed for a change, it’ll be worth it. Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> TEETH-ROTTING POINTLESS FLUFF GIVES ME LIFE.


End file.
